The Argosy - Vol. 51, No. 1, January, 1891
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The Argosy - Vol. 51, No. 1, January, 1891

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The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Argosy, by Various This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.net Title: The Argosy  Vol. 51, No. 1, January, 1891 Author: Various Editor: Charles W. Wood Release Date: November 11, 2005 [EBook #17051] Language: English Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE ARGOSY ***
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"Laden with Golden Grain"
THE ARGOSY.
EDITED BY CHARLES W. WOOD.
VOLUME LI. January to June, 1891.
RICHARD BENTLEY & SON, 8, NEW BURLINGTON STREET, LONDON, W. Publishers in Ordinary to Her Majesty. All rights reserved.
LONDON: PRINTED BY OGDEN, SMALE AND CO. LIMITED, GREAT SAFFRON HILL, E.C.
CONTENTS. THEFATE OF THEHARADIAMOND. Illustrated by M.L. GOW. Chap. I. My Arrival at Deepley Walls II. The Mistress of Deepley Walls III. A Voyage of Discovery IV. Scarsdale Weir V. At Rose Cottage VI. The Growth of a Mystery VII. Exit Janet Hope VIII. By the Scotch Express IX. At "The Golden Griffin"  X. The Stolen Manuscript XI. Bon Repos XII. The Amsterdam Edition of 1698 XIII. M. Platzoff's Secret—Captain Ducie's Translation of M. Paul Platzoff's MS XIV. Drashkil-Smoking XV. The Diamond XVI. Janet's Return XVII. Deepley Walls after Seven Years XVIII. Janet in a New Character XIX. The Dawn of Love XX. The Narrative of Sergeant Nicholas XXI. Counsel taken with Mr. Madgin XXII. Mr. Madgin at the Helm XXIII. Mr. Madgin's Secret Journey XXIV. Enter Madgin Junior XXV. Madgin Junior's First Report     * * * * * THESILENTCHIMES. By JOHNNYLUDLOW(Mrs. HENRYWOOD). Putting Them Up Playing Again Ringing at Midday Not Heard Silent for Ever     * * * * * THEBRETONS ATHOME. By CHARLESW. WOOD, F.R.G.S. With 35 Illustrations     * * * * * About the Weather Across the River. By HELENM. BURNSIDE After Twenty Years. By ADAM. TROTTER A Memory. By GEORGECLLTOERET A Modern Witch An April Folly. By GILBERTH. PAGE A Philanthropist. By ANGUSGREY Aunt Phœbe's Heirlooms: An Experience in Hypnotism
PAGE 23 29 35 40 Feb Feb Feb Feb Mar Mar Mar Mar Mar Apr Apr Apr Apr May May May May Jun Jun Jun Jun 1 Feb Mar Apr May 48, Feb, Mar, Apr, May, Jun Jun Apr Feb Feb 73 Apr Jun Feb
A Social Debut A Song. By G.B. STUART Enlightenment. By E. NESBIT In a Bernese Valley. By ALDEREXANLAMONT Legend of an Ancient Minster. By JOHNGRÆME Longevity. By W.F. AINSWORTH, F.S.A. Mademoiselle Elise. By EDWARDFRANCIS Mediums and Mysteries. By NARISSAROSAVO Miss Kate Marsden My May Queen. By JOHNJERVISBERESFORD, M.A. Old China On Letter-Writing. By A.H. JAPP, LL.D. Paul. By the Author of "Adonais, Q.C." "Proctorised" Rondeau. By E. NESBIT Saint or Satan? By A. BERESFORD Sappho. By MARYGREY Serenade. By E. NESBIT Sonnets. By JULIAKAVANAGH So Very Unattractive! Spes. By JOHNJERVISBERESFORD, M.A. Sweet Nancy. By JEANIEGWYNNEBETTANY The Church Garden. By CHRISTIANBURKE The Only Son of his Mother. By LETITIAMCCLINTOCK To my Soul. From the French of Victor Hugo Unexplained. By LETITIAMCCLINTOCK Who Was the Third Maid? Winter in Absence * * * * *     POETRY. Sonnets. By JULIAKAVANAGH A Song. By G.B. STUART Enlightenment. By E. NESBIT Winter in Absence A Memory. By GEORGECLLOTTERE In a Bernese Valley. By AREAXDNLELAMONT Rondeau. By E. NESBIT Spes. By JOHNJERVISBERESFORD, M.A. Across the River. By HELENM. BURNSIDE My May Queen. By JOHNJERVISBERESFORD, M.A. The Church Garden. By CHRISTIANBURKE Serenade. By E. NESBIT To my Soul. From the French of Victor Hugo Old China * * * * *     ILLUSTRATIONS. By M.L. Gow. "I advanced slowly up the room, stopped, and curtsied." I saw and recognised the mysterious midnight visitor." " "He came back in a few minutes, but so transformed in outward appearance that Ducie scarcel knew him."
Mar 18 Feb Feb Mar Apr Jun Feb 19 May Jun May May Apr Mar Feb Mar Jun 47, Feb, Apr, Jun Jun Apr May May Mar Jun Apr 69 Feb 47, Feb, Apr, Jun 18 Feb Feb Feb Feb Mar Apr Apr May May Jun Jun Jun
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"Behold!" "Sister Agnes knelt for a few moments and bent her head in silent prayer " . "He put his hand to his side, and motioned Mirpah to open the letter."     * * * * * Illustrations to "The Bretons at Home."
IADVANCED SLOWLY UP THE ROOM,STOPPED AND CURTSIED. PAGE 31.
THE ARGOSY. JANUARY, 1891.
THE SILENT CHIMES. PUTTING THEM UP. I hardly know whether to write this history, or not; for its events did not occur within my own recollection, and I can only relate them at second-hand—from the Squire and others. They are curious enough; especially as regards the three parsons—one following upon another—in their connection with the Monk family, causing no end of talk in Church Leet parish, as well as in other parishes within ear-shot. About three miles' distance from Church Dykely, going northwards across country, was the rural parish of Church Leet. It contained a few farmhouses and some labourers' cottages. The church, built of grey stone, stood in its large grave-yard; the parsonage, a commodious house, was close by; both of them were covered with time-worn ivy. Nearly half a mile off, on a gentle eminence, rose the handsome mansion called Leet Hall, the abode of the Monk family. Nearly the whole of the parish—land, houses, church and all—belonged to them. At the time I am about to tell of they were the property of one man—Godfrey Monk. The late owner of the place (except for one short twelvemonth) was old James Monk, Godfrey's father. Old James had three sons and one daughter—Emma—his wife dying early. The eldest son (mostly styled "young James") was about as wild a blade as ever figured in story; the second son, Raymond, was an invalid; the third, Godfrey, a reckless lad, ran away to sea when he was fourteen. If the Monks were celebrated for one estimable ualit more than another, it was tem er: a cross- rained,
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imperious, obstinate temper. "Run away to sea, has he?" cried old James when he heard the news; "very well, at sea he shall stop." And at sea Godfrey did stop, not disliking the life, and perhaps not finding any other open to him. He worked his way up in the merchant service by degrees, until he became commander and was called Captain Monk. The years went on. Young James died, and the other two sons grew to be middle-aged men. Old James, the father, found by signs and tokens that his own time was approaching; and he was the next to go. Save for a slender income bequeathed to Godfrey and to his daughter, the whole of the property was left to Raymond, and to Godfrey after him if Raymond had no son. The entail had been cut off in the past generation; for which act the reasons do not concern us. So Raymond, ailing greatly always, entered into possession of his inheritance. He lived about a twelvemonth afterwards, and then died: died unmarried. Therefore Godfrey came into all. People were curious, the Squire says, as to what sort of man Godfrey would turn out to be; for he had not troubled home much since he ran away. He was a widower; that much was known; his wife having been a native of Trinidad, in the West Indies. A handsome man, with fair, curling hair (what was left of it); proud blue eyes; well-formed features with a chronic flush upon them, for he liked his glass, and took it; a commanding, imperious manner, and a temper uncompromising as the grave. Such was Captain Godfrey Monk; now in his forty-fifth year. Upon his arrival at Leet Hall after landing, with his children and one or two dusky attendants in their train, he was received by his sister Emma, Mrs. Carradyne. Major Carradyne had died fighting in India, and his wife, at the request of her brother Raymond, came then to live at Leet Hall. Not of necessity, for Mrs. Carradyne was well off and could have made her home where she pleased, but Raymond had liked to have her. Godfrey also expressed his pleasure that she should remain; she could act as mother to his children. Godfrey's children were three: Katherine, aged seventeen; Hubert, aged ten; and Eliza, aged eight. The girls had their father's handsome features, but in their skin there ran a dusky tinge, hinting of other than pure Saxon blood; and they were every whit as haughtily self-willed as he was. The boy, Hubert, was extremely pretty, his face fair, his complexion delicately beautiful, his auburn hair bright, his manner winning; but he liked to exercise his own will, and appeared to have generally done it. A day or two, and Mrs. Carradyne sat down aghast. "I never saw children so troublesome and self-willed in all my life, Godfrey," she said to her brother. "Have they ever been controlled at all?" "Had their own way pretty much, I expect," answered the Captain. "I was not often at home, you know, and there's nobody else they'd obey." "Well, Godfrey, if I am to remain here, you will have to help me manage them. " "That's as may be, Emma. When I deem it necessary to speak, I speak; otherwise I don't interfere. And you must not get into the habit of appealing to me, recollect." Captain Monk's conversation was sometimes interspersed with sundry light words, not at all orthodox, and not necessarily delivered in anger. In those past days swearing was regarded as a gentleman's accomplishment; a sailor, it was believed, could not at all get along without it. Manners change. The present age prides itself upon its politeness: but what of its sincerity? Mrs. Carradyne, mild and gentle, commenced her task of striving to tame her brother's rebellious children. She might as well have let it alone. The girls laughed at her one minute and set her at defiance the next. Hubert, who had good feeling, was more obedient; he did not openly defy her. At times, when her task pressed heavily upon her spirits, Mrs. Carradyne felt tempted to run away from Leet Hall, as Godfrey had run from it in the days gone by. Her own two children were frightened at their cousins, and she speedily sent both to school, lest they should catch their bad manners. Henry was ten, the age of Hubert; Lucy was between five and six. Just before the death of Raymond Monk, the living of Church Leet became vacant, and the last act of his life was to present it to a worthy young clergyman named George West. This caused intense dissatisfaction to Godfrey. He had heard of the late incumbent's death, and when he arrived home and found the living filled up he proclaimed his anger loudly, lavishing abuse upon poor dead Raymond for his precipitancy. He had wanted to bestow it upon a friend of his, a Colonial chaplain, and had promised it to him. It was a checkmate there was no help for now, for Mr. West could not be turned out again; but Captain Monk was not accustomed to be checkmated, and resented it accordingly. He took up, for no other reason, a most inveterate dislike to George West, and showed it practically. In every step the Vicar took, at every turn and thought, he found himself opposed by Captain Monk. Had he a suggestion to make for the welfare of the parish, his patron ridiculed it; did he venture to propose some wise measure at a vestry meeting, the Captain put him and his measure down. Not civilly either, but with a stinging contempt, semi-covert though it was, that made its impression on the farmers around. The Reverend George West was a man of humility, given to much self-disparagement, so he bore all in silence and hoped for better times.
The time went on; three years of it; Captain Monk had fully settled down in his ancestral home, and the
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neighbours had learnt what a domineering, self-willed man he was. But he had his virtues. He was kind in a general way, generous where it pleased him to be, inordinately attached to his children, and hospitable to a fault. On the last day of every year, as the years came round, Captain Monk, following his late father's custom, gave a grand dinner to his tenants; and a very good custom it would have been, but that he and they got rather too jolly. The parson was always invited—and went; and sometimes a few of Captain Monk's personal friends were added. Christmas came round this year as usual, and the invitations to the dinner went out. One came to Squire Todhetley, a youngish man then, and one to my father, William Ludlow, who was younger than the Squire. It was a green Christmas; the weather so warm and genial that the hearty farmers, flocking to Leet Hall, declared they saw signs of buds sprouting in the hedges, whilst the large fire in the Captain's dining-room was quite oppressive. Looking from the window of the parsonage sitting-room in the twilight, while drawing on his gloves, preparatory to setting forth, stood Mr. West. His wife was bending over an easy-chair, in which their only child, little Alice, lay back, covered up. Her breathing was quick, her skin parched with fever. The wife looked sickly herself. "Well, I suppose it is time to go," observed Mr. West, slowly. "I shall be late if I don't." "I rather wonder you go at all, George," returned his wife. "Year after year, when you come back from this dinner, you invariably say you will not go to another." "I know it, Mary. I dislike the drinking that goes on—and the free conversation—and the objectionable songs; I feel out of place in it all." "And the Captain's contemptuous treatment of yourself, you might add." "Yes, that is another unwelcome item in the evening's programme." "Then, George, whydoyou go?" "Well, I think you know why. I do not like to refuse the invitation; it would only increase Captain Monk's animosity and widen still further the breach between us. As patron he holds so much in his power. Besides that, my presence at the table does act, I believe, as a mild restraint on some of them, keeping the drinking and the language somewhat within bounds. Yes, I suppose my duty lies in going. But I shall not stay late, Mary," added the parson, bending to look at the suffering child; "and if you see any real necessity for the doctor to be called in to-night, I will go for him." "Dood-bye, pa-pa," lisped the little four-year-old maiden. He kissed the little hot face, said adieu to his wife and went out, hoping that the child would recover without the doctor; for the living of Church Leet was but a poor one, though the parsonage house was so handsome. It was a hundred-and-sixty pounds a year, for which sum the tithes had been compounded, and Mr. West had not much money to spare for superfluities—especially as he had to substantially help his mother. The twilight had deepened almost to night, and the lights in the mansion seemed to smile a cheerful welcome as he approached it. The pillared entrance, ascended to by broad steps, stood in the middle, and a raised terrace of stone ran along before the windows on either side. It was quite true that every year at the conclusion of these feasts, the Vicar resolved never to attend another; but he was essentially a man of peace, striving ever to lay oil upon troubled waters, after the example left by his Master. Dinner. The board was full. Captain Monk presided, genial to-day; genial even to the parson. Squire Todhetley faced the Captain at the foot; Mr. West sat at the Squire's right hand, between him and Farmer Threpp, a quiet man and supposed to be a very substantial one. All went on pleasantly; but when the elaborate dinner gave place to dessert and wine-drinking, the company became rather noisy. "I think it's about time you left us," cried the Squire by-and-by to young Hubert, who sat next him on the other side: and over and over again Mr. Todhetley has repeated to us in later years the very words that passed. "By George, yes!" put in a bluff and hearty fox-hunter, the master of the hounds, bending forward to look at the lad, for he was in a line with him, and breaking short off an anecdote he was regaling the company with. "I forgot you were there, Master Hubert. Quite time you went to bed." "I daresay!" laughed the boy. "Please let me alone, all of you. I don't want attention drawn to me." But the slight commotion had attracted Captain Monk's notice. He saw his son. "What's that?—Hubert! What brings you there now, you young pirate? I ordered you to go out with the cloth." "I am not doing any harm, papa," said the boy, turning his fair and beautiful face towards his father. Captain Monk pointed his stern finger at the door; a mandate which Hubert dared not disobey, and he went out. The company sat on, an interminable period of time it seemed to the Vicar. He glanced stealthily at his watch. Eleven o'clock.
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"Thinking of going, Parson?" said Mr. Threpp. "I'll go with you. My head's not one of the strongest, and I've had about as much as I ought to carry." They rose quietly, not to disturb the table; intending to steal away, if possible, without being observed. Unluckily, Captain Monk chanced to be looking that way. "Halloa! who's turning sneak?—Not you, surely, Parson!—" in a meaningly contemptuous tone. "Andyou, Threpp, of all men! Sit down again, both of you, if you don't want to quarrel with me. Odds fish! has my dining-room got sharks in it, that you'd run away? Winter, just lock the door, will you; you are close to it; and pass up the key to me." Mr. Winter, a jovial old man and the largest tenant on the estate, rose to do the Captain's behest, and sent up the key. "Nobody quits my room," said the host, as he took it, "until we have seen the old year out and the new one in. What else do you come for—eh, gentlemen?" The revelry went on. The decanters circulated more quickly, the glasses clicked, the songs became louder, the Captain's sea stories broader. Mr. West perforce made the best of the situation, certain words of Holy Writ running through his memory: "Look not thou upon the wine when it is red, when it giveth its colour in the cup, when it moveth itself aright!" Well, more than well, for Captain Monk, that he had not looked upon the red wine that night! In the midst of all this, the hall clock began to strike twelve. The Captain rose, after filling his glass to the brim. "Bumpers round, gentlemen. On your legs. Ready? Hooray! Here's to the shade of the year that's gone, and may it have buried all our cares with it! And here's good luck to the one setting-in. A happy New Year to you all; and may we never know a moment in it worse than the present! Three-times-three—and drain your glasses " . "But we have had the toast too soon!" called out one of the farmers, making the discovery close after the cheers had subsided. "It wants some minutes yet to midnight, Captain." Captain Monk snatched out his watch—worn in those days in what was called the fob-pocket—its chain and bunch of seals at the end hanging down. "By Jupiter!" he exclaimed. "Hang that butler of mine! He knew the hall clock was too fast, and I told him to put it back. If his memory serves him no better than this, he may ship himself off to a fresh berth.—Hark! Listen!" It was the church clock striking twelve. The sound reached the dining-room very clearly, the wind setting that way. "Another bumper," cried the Captain, and his guests drank it. "This day twelvemonth I was at a feast in Derbyshire; the bells of a neighbouring church rang-in the year with pleasant melody; chimes they were," remarked a guest, who was a partial stranger. "Your church has no bells, I suppose?" "It has one; an old ting-tang that calls us to service on a Sunday," said Mr. Winter. "I like to hear those midnight chimes, for my part. I like to hear them chime-in the new year," went on the stranger. "Chimes!" cried out Captain Monk, who was getting very considerably elated, "why should we not have chimes? Mr. West, why don't we have chimes?" "Our church does not possess any, sir—as this gentleman has just remarked," was Mr. West's answer. "Egad, but that parson of ours is going to set us all ablaze with his wit!" jerked out the Captain ironically. "I asked, sir, why we should not get a set of chimes; I did not say we had got them. Is there any just cause or impediment why we should not, Mr. Vicar?" "Only the expense," replied the Vicar, in a conciliatory tone. "Oh, bother expense! That's what you are always wanting to groan over. Mr. Churchwarden Threpp, we will call a vestry meeting and make a rate." "The parish could not bear it, Captain Monk," remonstrated the clergyman. "You know what dissatisfaction was caused by the last extra rate put on, and how low an ebb things are at just now." "When I will a thing, I do it," retorted the Captain, with a meaning word or two. "We'll send out the rate and we'll get the chimes." "It will, I fear, lie in my duty to protest against it," spoke the uneasy parson. "It may lie in your duty to be a wet-blanket, but you won't protest me out of my will. Gentlemen, we will all meet here again this time twelvemonth, when the chimes shall ring-in the new year for you.—Here, Dutton, you can unlock the door now," concluded the Captain, handing the key to the other churchwarden. "Our parson is upon thorns to be away from us."
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Not the parson only, but several others availed themselves of the opportunity to escape. II. It perhaps did not surprise the parish to find that its owner and master, Captain Monk, intended to persist in his resolution of embellishing the church-tower with a set of chiming-bells. They knew him too well to hope anything less. Why! two years ago, at the same annual feast, some remarks or other at table put it into his head to declare he would stop up the public path by the Rill; and his obstinate will carried it out, regardless of the inconvenience it caused. A vestry meeting was called, and the rate (to obtain funds for the bells) was at length passed. Two or three voices were feebly lifted in opposition; Mr. West alone had courage to speak out; but the Captain put him down with his strong hand. It may be asked why Captain Monk did not provide the funds himself for this whim. But he would never touch his own pocket for the benefit of the parish if he could help it: and it was thought that his antagonism to the parson was the deterring motive. To impose the rate was one thing, to collect it quite another. Some of the poorer ratepayers protested with tears in their eyes that they could not pay. Superfluous rates (really not necessary ones) were perpetually being inflicted upon them, they urged, and were bringing them, together with a succession of recent bad seasons, to the verge of ruin. They carried their remonstrances to their Vicar, and he in turn carried them to Captain Monk. It only widened the breach. The more persistently, though gently, Mr. West pleaded the cause of his parishioners, asking the Captain to be considerate to them for humanity's sake, the greater grew the other's obstinacy in holding to his own will. To be thus opposed roused all the devil within him—it was his own expression; and he grew to hate Mr. West with an exceeding bitter hatred. The chimes were ordered—to play one tune only. Mr. West asked, when the thing was absolutely inevitable, that at least some sweet and sacred melody, acceptable to church-going ears, might be chosen; but Captain Monk fixed on a sea-song that was a favourite of his own—"The Bay of Biscay." At the end of every hour, when the clock had struck, the Bay of Biscay was to burst forth to charm the parish. The work was put in hand at once, Captain Monk finding the necessary funds, to be repaid by the proceeds of the rate. Other expenses were involved, such as the strengthening of the belfry. The rate was not collected quickly. It was, I say, one of those times of scarcity that people used to talk so much of years ago; and when the parish beadle, who was the parish collector, went round with the tax-paper in his hand, the poorer of the cottagers could not respond to it. Some of them had not paid the last levy, and Captain Monk threatened harsh measures. Altogether, what with one thing or another, Church Leet that year was kept in a state of ferment. But the work went on.
One windy day in September, Mr. West sat in his study writing a sermon, when a jarring crash rang out from the church close by. He leaped from his chair. The unusual noise had startled him; and it struck on every chord of vexation he possessed. He knew that workmen were busy in the tower, but this was the first essay of the chimes. The bells had clashed in some way one upon the other; not giving out The Bay of Biscay or any other melody, but a very discordant jangle indeed. It was the first and the last time that poor George West heard their sound. He put the blotting-paper upon his sermon; he was in no mind to continue it then; took up his hat and went out. His wife spoke to him from the open window. "Are you going out now, George? Tea is all but ready." Turning back on the path, he passed into the sitting-room. A cup of tea might soothe his nerves. The tea-tray stood on the table, and Mrs. West, caddy in hand, was putting the tea into the tea-pot. Little Alice sat gravely by. "Did you hear dat noise up in the church, papa?" she asked. "Yes, I heard it, dear," sighed the Vicar. "A fine clashing it was!" cried Mrs. West. "I have heard something else this afternoon, George, worse than that: Bean's furniture is being taken away " . "What?" cried the Vicar. "It's true. Sarah went out on an errand and passed the cottage. The chairs and tables were being put outside the door by two men, she says: brokers, I conclude." Mr. West made short work of his tea and started for the scene. Thomas Bean was a very small farmer indeed, renting about thirty acres. What with the heavy rates, as he said, and other outgoings and bad seasons, and ill-luck altogether, he had been behind in his payments this long while; and now the ill-luck seemed to have come to a climax. Bean and his wife were old; their children were scattered abroad. "Oh, sir," cried the old lady when she saw the Vicar, the tears raining from her eyes, "it cannot be right that
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this oppression should fall upon us! We had just managed—Heaven knows how, for I'm sure I don't—to pay the Midsummer rent; and now they've come upon us for the rates, and have took away things worth ten times the sum." "For the rates!" mechanically spoke the Vicar. She supposed it was a question. "Yes, sir; two of 'em we had in the house. One was for putting up the chimes; and the other—well, I can't just remember what the other was. The beadle, old Crow, comes in, sir, this afternoon. 'Where be the master?' says he. 'Gone over to t'other side of Church Dykely,' says I. 'Well,' says he, upon that, 'you be going to have some visitors presently, and it's a pity he's out.' 'Visitors, for what, Crow?' says I. 'Oh, you'll see,' says he; 'and then perhaps you'll wish you'd bestirred yourselves to pay your just dues. Captain Monk's patience have been running on for a goodish while, and at last it have run clean out.' Well, sir—" She had to make a pause; unable to control her grief. "Well, sir," she went on presently, "Crow's back was hardly turned, when up came two men, wheeling a truck. I saw 'em afar off, by the ricks yonder. One came in; t'other stayed outside with the truck. He asked me whether I was ready with the money for the taxes; and I told him I was not ready, and had but a couple of shillings in the house. 'Then I must take the value of it in kind,' says he. And without another word, he beckons in the outside man to help him. Our middle table, a mahogany, they seized; and the handsome oak chest, which had been our pride; and the master's arm-chair—But, there! I can't go on." Mr. West felt nearly as sorrowful as she, and far more angry. In his heart he believed that Captain Monk had done this oppressive thing in revenge. A great deal of ill-feeling had existed in the parish touching the rate made for the chimes; and the Captain assumed that the few who had not yet paid itwouldnot pay—not that they could not. Quitting the cottage in an impulse of anger, he walked swiftly to Leet Hall. It lay in his duty, as he fully deemed, to avow fearlessly to Captain Monk what he thought of this act of oppression, and to protest against it. The beams of the setting sun, sinking below the horizon in the still autumn evening, fell across the stubbled fields from which the corn had not long been reaped; all around seemed to speak of peace. To accommodate two gentlemen who had come from Worcester that day to Leet Hall on business, and wished to quit it again before dark, the dinner had been served earlier than usual. The guests had left, but Captain Monk was seated still over his wine in the dining-room when Mr. West was shown in. In crossing the hall to it, he met Mrs. Carradyne, who shook hands with him cordially. Captain Monk looked surprised. "Why, this is an unexpected pleasure—a visit from you, Mr. Vicar," he cried, in mocking jest. "Hope you have come to your senses! Sit down. Will you take port or sherry?" "Captain Monk," returned the Vicar, gravely, as he took the chair the servant had placed, "I am obliged for your courtesy, but I did not intrude upon you this evening to drink wine. I have seen a very sad sight, and I am come hoping to induce you to repair it." "Seen what?" cried the Captain, who, it is well to mention, had been taking his wine very freely, even for him. "A flaming sword in the sky?" "Your tenants, poor Thomas Bean and his wife, are being turned out of house and home, or almost equivalent to it. Some of their furniture has been seized this afternoon to satisfy the demand for these disputed taxes." "Who disputes the taxes?" "The tax imposed for the chimes was always a disputed tax; and—" "Tush!" interrupted the Captain; "Bean owes other things as well as taxes. " "It was the last feather, sir, which broke the camel's back." "The last feather will not be taken off, whether it breaks backs or leaves them whole," retorted the Captain, draining his glass of port and filling it again. "Take you note of that, Mr. Parson." "Others are in the same condition as the Beans—quite unable to pay these rates. I pray you, Captain Monk —I am here topray to proceed in the same  you—notmanner against them. I would also pray you, sir, to redeem this act of oppression, by causing their goods to be returned to these two poor, honest, hard-working people." "Hold your tongue!" retorted the Captain, aroused to anger. "A pretty exampleyou'dset, let you have your way. Every one of the lot shall be made to pay to the last farthing. Who the devil is to pay, do you suppose, if they don't?" "Rates are imposed upon the parish needlessly, Captain Monk; it has been so ever since my time here. Pardon me for saying that if you put up chimes to gratify yourself, you should bear the expense, and not throw it upon those who have a struggle to get bread to eat." Captain Monk drank off another glass. "Any more treason, Parson?" "Yes," said Mr. West, "if you like to call it so. My conscience tells me that the whole procedure in regard to setting up these chimes is so wrong, so manifestly unjust, that I have determined not to allow them to be
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heard until the rates levied for them are refunded to the poor and oppressed. I believe I have the power to close the belfry-tower, and I shall act upon it." "By Jove! do you thinkyou are going to stand between me and my will?" cried the Captain passionately. "Every individual who has not yet paid the rate shall be made to pay it to-morrow." "There is another world, Captain Monk," interposed the mild voice of the minister, "to which, I hope, we are all—" "If you attempt to preach to me—" At this moment a spoon fell to the ground by the sideboard. The Vicar turned to look; his back was towards it; the Captain peered also at the end of the rapidly-darkening room: when both became aware that one of the servants—Michael, who had shown in Mr. West—stood there; had stood there all the time. "What are you waiting for, sirrah?" roared his master. "We don't wantyou. Here! put this window open an inch or two before you go; the room's close." "Shall I bring lights, sir?" asked Michael, after doing as he was directed. "No: who wants lights? Stir the fire into a blaze " . Michael left them. It was from him that thus much of the conversation was subsequently known. Not five minutes had elapsed when a commotion was heard in the dining-room. Then the bell rang violently, and the Captain opened the door—overturning a chair in his passage to it—and shouted out for a light. More than one servant flew to obey the order: in his hasty moods their master brooked not delay: and three separate candles were carried in. "Good lack, master!" exclaimed the butler, John Rimmer, who was a native of Church Dykely, "what's amiss with the Parson?" "Lift him up, and loosen his neck-cloth," said Captain Monk, his tone less imperious than usual. Mr. West lay on the hearthrug near his chair, his head resting close to the fender. Rimmer raised his head, another servant took off his black neck-tie; for it was only on high days that the poor Vicar indulged in a white one. He gasped twice, struggled slightly, and then lay quietly in the butler's arms. "Oh, sir!" burst forth the man in a horror-stricken voice to his master, "this is surely death!" It surely was. George West, who had gone there but just before in the height of health and strength, had breathed his last. How did it happen? How could it have happened? Ay, how indeed? It was a question which has never been entirely solved in Church Leet to this day. Captain Monk's account, both privately and at the inquest, was this: As they talked further together, after Michael left the room, the Vicar went on to browbeat him shamefully about the new chimes, vowing they should never play, never be heard; at last, rising in an access of passion, the Parson struck him (the Captain) in the face. He returned the blow—who wouldn't return it?—and the Vicar fell. He believed his head must have struck against the iron fender in falling: if not, if the blow had been an unlucky one (it took effect just behind the left ear), it was only given in self-defence. The jury, composed of Captain Monk's tenants, expressed themselves satisfied, and returned a verdict of Accidental Death. "A false account," pronounced poor Mrs. West, in her dire tribulation. "My husband never struck him—never; he was not one to be goaded into unbecoming anger, even by Captain Monk.George struck no blow whatever; I can answer for it. If ever a man was murdered, he has been." Curious rumours arose. It was said that Mrs. Carradyne, taking the air on the terrace outside in the calmness of the autumn evening, heard the fatal quarrel through the open window; that she heard Mr. West, after he had received the death blow, wail forth a prophecy (or whatever it might be called) that those chimes would surely be accursed; that whenever their sound should be heard, so long as they were suffered to remain in the tower, it should be the signal of woe to the Monk family. Mrs. Carradyne utterly denied this; she had not been on the terrace at all, she said. Upon which the onus was shifted to Michael: who, it was suspected, had stolen out to listen to the end of the quarrel, and had heard the ominous words. Michael, in his turn, also denied it; but he was not believed. Anyway, the covert whisper had gone abroad and would not be laid.
III. Captain Monk speedily filled up the vacant living, appointing to it the Reverend Thomas Dancox, an occasional visitor at Leet Hall, who was looking out for one. The new Vicar turned out to be a man after the Captain's heart, a rollicking, jovial, fox-hunting young parson, as many a parson was in those days—and took small blame to himself for it. He was only a year or two past thirty, good-looking, of taking manners and hail-fellow-well-met with the parish in general, who liked him and called him to his face Tom Dancox.
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All this pleased Captain Monk. But very soon something was to arrive that did not please him—a suspicion that the young parson and his daughter Katherine were on rather too good terms with one another. One day in November he stalked into the drawing-room, where Katherine was sitting with her aunt. Hubert and Eliza were away at school, also Mrs. Carradyne's two children. "Was Dancox here last night?" began Captain Monk. "Yes," replied Mrs. Carradyne. "And the evening before—Monday?" Mrs. Carradyne felt half afraid to answer, the Captain's tone was becoming so threatening. "I—I think so," she rather hesitatingly said. "Was he not, Katherine?" Katherine Monk, a dark, haughty young woman, twenty-one now, turned round with a flush on her handsome face. "Why do you ask, papa?" "I ask to be answered," replied he, standing with his hands in the pockets of his velveteen shooting coat, a purple tinge of incipient anger rising in his cheeks. "Then Mr. Dancox did spend Monday evening here." "And I saw him walking with you in the meadow by the rill this morning," continued the Captain. "Look here, Katherine,no sweet-hearting with Tom Dancox. He may do very well for a parson; I like him as such, as such only, you understand; but he can be no match for you." "You are disturbing yourself unnecessarily, sir," said Katherine, her own tone an angry one. "Well, I hope that is so; I should not like to think otherwise. Anyway, a word in season does no harm; and, take you notice that I have spoken it. You also, Emma." As he left the room, Mrs. Carradyne spoke, dropping her voice: "Katherine, you know that I had already warned you. I told you it would not do to fall into any particular friendship with Mr. Dancox; that your father would never countenance it." "And if I were to?—and if he did not?" scornfully returned Katherine. "What then, Aunt Emma?" "Be silent, child; you must not talk in that strain. Your papa is perfectly right in this matter. Tom Dancox is not suitable in any way—foryou." This took place in November. Katherine paid little heed to the advice; she was not one to put up with advice of any sort, and she and Mr. Dancox met occasionally under the rose. Early in December she went with Mr. Dancox into the Parsonage, while he searched for a book he was about to lend her. That was the plea; the truth, no doubt, being that the two wanted a bit of a chat in quiet. As ill-luck had it, when she was coming out again, the Parson in attendance on her as far as the gate, Captain Monk came by. A scene ensued. Captain Monk, in a terrible access of passion, vowed by all the laws of the Medes and Persians, which alter not, that never, in life or after death, should those two rebellious ones be man and wife, and he invoked unheard-of penalties on their heads should they dare to contemplate disobedience to his decree. Thenceforth there was no more open rebellion; upon the surface all looked smooth. Captain Monk understood the folly to be at an end: that the two had come to their senses; and he took Tom Dancox back into favour. Mrs. Carradyne assumed the same. But Katherine had her father's unyielding will, and the Parson was bold and careless, and in love.
The last day of the year came round, and the usual banquet would come with it. The weather this Christmas was not like that of last; the white snow lay on the ground, the cold biting frost hardened the glistening icicles on the trees. And the chimes? Ready these three months past, they had not yet been heard. They would be to-night. Whether Captain Monk wished the remembrance of Mr. West's death to die away a bit first, or that he preferred to open the treat on the banqueting night, certain it was that he had kept them silent. When the church clock should toll the midnight knell of the old year, the chimes would ring out to welcome the new one and gladden the ears of Church Leet. But not without a remonstrance. That morning, as the Captain sat in his study writing a letter, Mrs. Carradyne came to him. "Godfrey," she said in a low and pleading tone, "you will not suffer the chimes to play to-night, will you? Pray do not." "Not suffer the chimes to play?" cried the Captain. "But indeed I shall. Why, this is the special night they were put up for." "I know it, Godfre . But— ou cannot think what a stran el -stron feelin I have a ainst it: an instinct, it seems
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